Thorn in the flesh
by Nesta
Summary: Faramir's son Elboron tells about his troublesome younger brother.


Thorn in the flesh 

You were asking about my brother Túrin … ah well, I'll try to explain. He's as hard to explain as my sister Fíriel, but for completely different reasons.

Túrin's a good deal younger than me, six years younger than Fíriel. That in itself might have made our relationship difficult – there was never any chance that we could have been what Father and Boromir had been to each other – but it wasn't the real reason. The real reason was Túrin himself. There were times when Fíriel and I looked back at the Time Before Túrin as a kind of lost perfection, a time of untroubled peace and harmony. Perhaps we were unjust – I don't know. I'll try to tell you about him and you can judge for yourself.

As I've said, he was a late addition to our family, and from the beginning he was trouble: to Mother at his difficult and painful birth, to his nurses though his turbulent and rage-ridden early years, to everyone in his troublesome childhood, and to Father all the time.

The trouble with Túrin – the root of it, anyway – was that he never seemed to feel any need of love, and so it was very hard to love him. Mother, I know, struggled not to dislike him, and Fíriel frankly detested him. I did my best to suppress similar feelings; as his elder brother I felt some obligation to protect him, but he never seemed to need that either. As for Father – well, it was his attitude towards Father that Fíriel and I found most unbearable about him. Father and I were always good friends: increasingly so as I grew older, and especially once I realised that he didn't want me to be 'like him', which was impossible, but merely to make the best of what I was myself; and to Fíriel, of course, Father was all in all. Túrin always seemed to see Father as a kind of enemy: an enemy worth his steel, one he even respected, but an enemy none the less. Father treated him with an unwearying, loving patience that nobody else could have managed, and yet even he was provoked to anger at times; something which Túrin always treated as a victory. And the strangest thing about all this is that Father and Túrin were, in some ways, very alike.

What they had in common was, above all, acute intelligence; but whereas with Father this was always tempered by tolerance and understanding, in Túrin it was fierce and hungry and scornful. And whereas Father was interested in almost everything, Túrin, as soon as he knew anything, knew that what interested him was living things – not in a compassionate way, like Father or Fíriel, but dispassionately. Anything else he was made to learn, he learned with a infuriating kind of efficient toleration. Father taught each of us children in turn the history of Gondor and of our family, and I remember how I, and later Fíriel, would listen fascinated and then pelt him with questions, which he would answer with endless patience. When he visited our school, the children would crowd round him crying 'Teach us! Teach us!' – to the great annoyance of their regular teachers, who strove every day, against great opposition, to do just that. But Túrin would sit staring into space, and if Father asked _him_ a question to make sure he'd understood, he would answer it accurately but as briefly as possible, and then say politely 'Do go on, Father', and resume his study of the ceiling. Music interested him not at all, and he utterly refused to take any part in sports or games. He learned to ride and handle weapons, of course, and this too he did well, but the minute the lesson was over he would toss the horse's reins to a groom, or slam the sword or bow back in its place, and walk away. The boys who trained with him were inclined to mock at him for this (neither of us received any privileged treatment as the Prince's sons – Father saw to that), and for a long time he took no notice, though once or twice I saw an angry gleam in his eye. Then one day, when he was about ten, another boy, considerably older and bigger than he was, went too far, jeering at him from behind his back. Túrin turned round slowly, measured the boy up and down with his eye, and dealt him a perfectly placed blow with his fist that knocked him unconscious. Túrin waited with cold patience until the other boy – Belecthor his name was – came round, checked that he was none the worse, and stalked off. Belecthor never complained to me or Father about this, though of course we knew about it; it was all over Ithilien. After that, the other boys left Túrin alone.

Túrin knew exactly where to hit Belecthor because of his fascination with the workings of bodies – all bodies, from worms and snails up, but human bodies most of all. I remember when I first told him the story of Mother and her fight with the Witch-King; I insisted on being the one to do this because I was so proud both of her and of the way I told the story. Túrin – he'd have been about five then - was completely unimpressed, except by one detail, about Mother breaking her arm. He went straight off to Mother and started feeling her arm, and tried to roll up her sleeve to see if the effects of the break were still visible. On that occasion I think Mother demonstrated to him that whatever the state of her shield arm, her sword arm was in good caning order; but punishments had no effect on Túrin. As this incident showed, he was particularly fascinated by wounds and sickness: not for the sake of alleviating anyone's suffering, but in order to repair the marvellous mechanism of bodies. This did create a point of contact with Mother and her assistants, and for a time Túrin was content to study their herbs and draughts; but being Túrin, he had to go further. He started, as far as I know, by trying a new combination of medicines, disguised in milk, on some kittens that were being brought up by an unofficial cat in one of our outbuildings. The kittens died. What Túrin didn't know was that they were being tenderly watched over by Fíriel, who had seen Túrin about the place and immediately identified him as the killer; whereupon she denounced him to Father with all the fury of a miniature Fëanor proclaiming the misdeeds of Morgoth. Túrin, when questioned, admitted straight away what he'd done – he was always remorselessly truthful – but couldn't see what all the fuss was about, as the kittens belonged to nobody. Father gently restrained Fíriel's calls for vengeance and told Túrin very gravely that he mustn't exercise his curiosity on poor innocent creatures that had never done him any harm. The result was that next time Túrin wanted to experiment, he administered the medicine to Belecthor, how I don't know. Belecthor was in bed for a week as a result, but he didn't dare to accuse Túrin after their previous encounter. Nonetheless Father got wind of what had happened – few things escaped him, as I've told you before – and he gave Túrin a beating and forbade him to dose any other living thing, however offensive to him, Túrin, that thing (or person) might be. Túrin wasn't ready to concede defeat yet: he simply took the next dose of recombined medicine himself, and as soon as he was able to sit up in bed, demanded pencil and paper to write notes on his own symptoms. At that point Father told him that any other horrid concoction Túrin invented, he could try it on him, Father, or nobody. Not even Túrin dared to go that far, and that, I verily believe, was the end of his live experiments. He took to studying bones instead, and that caused trouble of another kind; I think you know the story. It had a good outcome, because Túrin and Father came to some sort of understanding, whereby Father tolerated Túrin's curiosity and Túrin strove to keep it within decent bounds, as he understood them (which wasn't all that well). But it was an uneasy truce rather than a full peace.

Funnily enough, it was war, the King's war with the Easterlings, that brought a more lasting peace and saved all our sanity. As wars go it was a minor affair – certainly in comparison with what came later – but its effect on Túrin was overwhelming. The King being at the war, Father was of course in charge at home, which meant that we all spent about ten months living in the City. There was a steady trickle of wounded men being brought into the Houses of Healing, a trickle that became a flood once or twice after a pitched battle. Mother spent most of her time in the Houses, and Father was a daily visitor. He took us children with him from time to time, as a courtesy to the wounded men who'd suffered on our behalf, but he and the Warden took care that we didn't see anything too harrowing. I don't know if my visits did the wounded any good, but the men whom Fíriel graced with her smiles invariably declared that they'd gladly have suffered twice as much if that would have guaranteed them another sight of her, so her presence was certainly a blessing. I'd have thought that Túrin's presence would have had exactly the opposite effect, but under Father's discreetly stern eye he behaved reasonably well. Until one day, when we were gathering ourselves together after the visit, Túrin was nowhere to be found. We concluded that he'd got bored and slipped away somewhere; it wasn't until he failed to appear at dinner that anyone began to worry. It was just then that Father received a perplexed message from the Warden saying that Master Túrin was still in the Houses and refused to leave, and did we want him forcibly dispatched back to us? Apparently Túrin had insinuated himself into a room where the Surgeon and his mates were operating on a badly wounded man, and it wasn't until they were clearing up that they realised Túrin was quietly watching them from behind. The fact that the operation was extremely gory – and painful for the victim - hadn't bothered him in the least; he was simply fascinated by the intricate repair work he'd seen. Father had Túrin returned to us under escort, and he appeared in one of his most unpleasantly sulky moods, having been torn away from the only place where, as he had just realised, he truly wanted to be. The next day Father summoned a council consisting of myself, Túrin, Mother, the Surgeon and the Warden, and asked the Surgeon if Túrin had been a nuisance; when the Surgeon rather hesitantly said no, Father asked the Warden if he'd mind taking Túrin on as a more or less permanent observer, on condition that he'd be ejected instantly and finally if he misbehaved in the smallest degree. The Warden wasn't happy about it, but there was nothing he wouldn't have done at Father's asking, and so the arrangement was made. After that we scarcely ever saw Túrin, a state of affairs which Fíriel and I considered eminently satisfactory. When the war was over and the King returned, Túrin flatly refused to come back with us to Ithilien; the Houses of Healing were his home and he intended staying there. Father, recognising an immovable object when he saw one, and unable to think of anywhere where Túrin would be more useful – or less trouble – had him formally apprenticed to the Surgeon despite his ridiculously young age (I was going to say 'tender years', but there was nothing tender about Túrin), and that was that. The Surgeon never came to like him, and the gentle old Warden was in a state of perpetual puzzlement as to how Father (whom he adored) could possibly have produced a son like Túrin, but they both agreed that he was the most gifted apprentice they'd ever had. With some interruptions – I'll tell you about those some other time – he's been in the Houses ever since, and I don't know how many people owe their lives to him, but not one of them ever came to love him. I remember I once said to Father, in a moment of discouragement, that it was a pity Túrin couldn't be the heir instead of me, because Túrin had ten times my brains. Father smiled and said that things were much better as they were: you could mend broken bodies without love, but you couldn't rule a country. Since I couldn't love Ithilien, or Gondor, more than I do, and there's no chance of my ever growing any more brains, I only hope that Father was right. Well, he usually is.


End file.
